


Infiltration

by animefreak



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, alternate time line
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-01 13:29:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animefreak/pseuds/animefreak
Summary: When a covert agent from another dimension wakes up in 1963 or thereabouts, she decides U.N.C.L.E. isn't the only option; but Napoleon and Illya are interesting tools.





	1. Chapter 1

Early morning, 1963

Sunlight crept across the bare wooden floor. The blond wood gleamed softly in the early golden light which also glinted off the chrome and shiny black paint job of a massive Harley Davidson motorcycle parked neatly in the middle of the empty room. The light moved on, finding a foot. The bare sole was dirty. The hem of the faded blue jeans above the foot, frayed. The sunlight moved onward along the floor, warming the foot, the leg above it, moving up the gentle curve of a hip. With a long sighing breath, the woman to whom the foot and leg were attached rolled over onto her back and into the sunlight. A frown furrowed her smooth pale forehead. Strands of fine black hair tickled her face. She brushed them away and opened her eyes. The sunlight streaming in the covered windows made her blink and narrow her eyes until only black fringed slits regarded the unfamiliar wall of windows.

She continued to frown at the thirty-foot length of wall with its evenly spaced expanses of glass. They were beautiful, floor to ceiling, arched across the top and completely unfamiliar. Also very clean. She tried to recall where she had fallen asleep last night. Or possibly where she had fallen unconscious. She had been drinking – a lot. She had ingested far more than most people could manage to keep down and had been doing it for – how long? She ran a graceful, long fingered hand through the tangle of her hair. She pulled the hand around and stared at it. The fingers were bare, the nails short and relatively neatly edged. She had a momentary memory of silver rings, one or more on each finger and on the thumb. She blinked the memory away. That was a long time ago. 

She rolled up into a sitting position, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell of alcohol clinging to her clothing. She ignored the fact that it clung to her as well. The windows drew her again. There was frost in the lower corners. She got to her feet easily and padded over to the clear expanse. She gazed out on a city she knew. New York. She looked down to the street and frowned. There was something odd about the traffic. There didn't seem to be quite as much of it as the last time she was there. That had been – just before the Twin Towers came down in a terrorist attack. The snow looked new fallen. And the cars ... She shook her head, blinked and looked again. Either she was on an entire street of classic car collectors, or – she balked at considering an “or” scenario.

She stood there, clad in a stained tank top and faded denims reeking of alcohol, unaware of the chill in the loft apartment and stared out at the street three floors below. She shuddered and then searched her pockets feverishly. Coins, crumpled bills in small denominations, a battered American Express card and that was all she had on her. She checked the coins and the bills. Old. Nothing current. She panicked for a moment, then she realized that all the money on her probably came out of her stash at the house. For reasons she never thought about, she preferred older coins and bills. 

She looked out the window again. Not a vehicle newer than the early 1960’s was parked on the street between snow and trash cans. She shivered, not from the cold beginning to penetrate through her skin to her bones, but from what she was beginning to consider as a reality. She was in New York in the 1960’s, the early 1960’s. The Beatles were just beginning their careers in England and Germany. Computers were room filling monsters run with vacuum tubes and mag tapes and punch cards. Gasoline was leaded. Smoking was normal. Drinking to excess was fun. AT&T ran the telephones for local and long distance. The Vietnam War was still in the hands of advisors and the Bay of Pigs was almost an excuse to nuke the planet into the infamous nuclear winter. Hell, they were still testing bombs in Nevada and out on Bikini Island. Open air dirty bomb testing was still happening. 

In her own life, her friends were in the process of being recruited to the Organization. Correction, one of them was being recruited. One was still in college. And she was – where? She shuddered. No. This could not be real. This was a joke. This was some sort of horrible, nasty, lunatic joke. It had to be.

The street with its ubiquitous row of declining brownstone fronts denied that it was a joke. She could see a couple of first floor – ground floor – she almost grinned at her Anglicism – shops. It looked like a tailor? No, an Italian dry cleaning establishment toward the middle of the block she could see and something farther down. 

She turned back to the room. It was large and spacious, a huge loft apartment with ceilings that stretched 12 feet above the floor. In the center of the room was her beloved Harley. She had never seen this apartment before. The floor was smooth under her feet, the gleaming wood looking fresh and newly waxed. There was an efficiency kitchen with an ancient gas stove and a dishwasher that looked like a very new version of an older model. She opened the cupboards. Empty. No food, no pots, no pans, no utensils, nothing. There weren’t even the obligatory mouse droppings or cockroach remains. She found a walk in closet and a tidy, spacious bathroom. Aside from that, this was a loft, a big, empty loft with a Harley Davidson motorcycle parked in the middle of the living area.

She was noticing the cold now, and beginning to give in to her fright. She rubbed her bare arms with her hands and looked around again for the tattered denim jacket she habitually wore. A sigh of relief escaped her as she spotted it in the corner near the door, next to her equally well worn moccasin boots. She dove for the items and shrugged into the sheepskin-lined jacket, pulling on the boots with stiff fingers. She searched the pockets of her jacket. Tissue. Gum? Mints. Half a squashed chocolate bar. Cell phone. 

“Hallelujah!" She quickly dialed the number of her home. Nothing. She checked the battery. Full charge. She looked at the small screen. No connection. With a bleak look she sat down, staring at that. She shivered again from a cold that seemed soul deep. This was New York City, New York. She knew she had paid the last invoice for cell phone service. The phone was functioning. No Connection. The words were sharp and clear on the small screen. No Connection equaled no service. In this case, it meant no service to be had. She shook her head in denial. “No. Please, no,” she whispered into the silence.

Over the years, she had faced madmen who wanted to own her, to break her, to kill her. She had gone through the insanity of breaking and coming back. She had been shot, stabbed, isolated, strangled, bludgeoned, cut, beaten, starved, burned, blown up and raped; and nothing in that unbelievable litany of damage had prepared her for this. This was almost as bad as the unknowable length of time she had spent in VR hell or in that one madwoman’s version of sensory deprivation. She was more truly alone here than she had been in decades. There were no friends at the other end of the phone connection, land line or cell phone; there were no bolt holes where she had carefully stowed selected items to help her survive; there were no bank accounts under other names than her own, there was nothing. She was completely alone and on her own.

It hit her hard that she had allowed herself to become dependent on others, on her friends, on colleagues, on the technology of her world. Over night that had all vanished. Somehow, she was back in the 1960’s with nothing but her wits, her body and her Harley. For a moment, she almost prayed that this was some new torment visited on her by the one enemy who was as resilient as she was. She shivered with cold and shock, knowing that this was real and not the virtual reality of that enemy. Slowly, tears gathered in her very green eyes and slid down her cheeks. She rocked herself in misery. For just a moment, she concentrated very, very hard on seeing her home as she knew it. The apartment remained unchanged. She took in a shuddering breath on the edge of a sob and sighed in partial relief. No, this was not the nightmare come again. This was a new nightmare.

“Welcome to the Twilight Zone,” she told herself and let the bitter tears fall until she had cried herself out.

Some time later, her stomach informed her in no uncertain tones that her throat had been cut or it would be a really good idea to get something to eat. Eat. Food. Her thought turned to fast food and she sighed. Not yet. McDonald’s was only just beginning. Burger King was in its infancy. The two of them being the early age of fast food, it looked like a neighborhood grocery would be the best bet.

She got up, ran her fingers through her tangled hair and pulled it into a braid over her shoulder. She checked the sink in the kitchen for running water. The water was on. She rinsed her face, snapped the front of her jacket together and stopped just at the front door. Did she have a key to this place? Not on her. She started with the hall closet to see if there was a key. She almost laughed out loud. There was an envelope taped to the inside of the closet door. Inside were two sets of keys. Apparently there was a back door somewhere around here. Carefully, she locked the door behind her.

It was cold out on the street, but not as cold as she had thought it might be. Lacking information, she walked toward the dry cleaner’s she’d seen. Her eyes swept the street back and forth. There was something odd about the place, but she couldn’t quite place it. She stopped to admire the sign out front on the dry cleaner’s place. You didn’t see signs like that any more. She gave herself a mental shake. Actually, you did. She sighed and stepped forward into a slightly built blond man who stood a little taller than she did. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks with color as she stepped back apologizing.

“Goddess, I’m sorry. Peripherals seem to have shut down completely,” she apologized with a rueful smile. 

Eyes like a glacier lake met her gaze. Eyebrows slightly darker than his straw colored hair drew together as he ran an expert look over her. She knew that look. A tingle of recognition ran through her as a taller, dark haired man stepped out of the cleaners to join the one she’d walked into.

Napoleon Solo, impeccably clad in suit and tie, as always, ran a quick look over the grubby young thing that had walked into his partner, looked away and looked back. Eyes like emerald chips in a high cheek boned face met his gaze without faltering. She didn’t look away, she didn’t color up and she didn’t smile. She just evaluated. He looked to his partner and lifted one dark brow in inquiry.

“She walked into me,” came the terse explanation.

“And apologized for doing so –“ She reviewed her words and grinned. A chuckle escaped her. “OK, it didn’t exactly sound like an apology, but it was. I am sorry. I’m afraid I’m not quite as ready for the “Big City” as I thought I was.” She turned both the gaze and the smile on the younger man. 

He unbent – a little. “It’s all right. Perhaps you should concentrate on where you are going instead of the “sights”,” he told her. 

The sarcasm did not escape her. She chuckled again. “If I was absolutely certain where I was headed, it might help. I was looking for a grocery store. I just moved into the neighborhood and -- I forgot to ask.”

The story sounded right. The movements were right. Why did he feel there was something more here?

“Ah. I believe there’s a corner grocery about two blocks – that way,” Napoleon answered the implied question, pointing up the street behind him. 

“Thank you.” She started to step past the two men.

“You’re welcome, Miss --?”

She looked back over her shoulder, a speculative look in her eyes and a touch of a grin curving her lips. “Elkins. Kim Elkins,” she answered him. 

“Solo. Napoleon Solo,” he introduced himself in the same fashion.

He caught a touch of laughter in her eyes as she looked him up and down quite deliberately before focusing on his face again. “Aren’t you just a bit tall for that name, Mr. Solo?” Her stomach grumbled again. “See you around,” she told them and turned back toward her objective. 

Napoleon and his partner stood there for a moment watching her walk away. 

“Really, Napoleon, isn’t she a bit young?

That got the patented innocent raised eyebrow look followed by a thoughtful look. “Did she strike you as young?”

Exasperated look and then a frown. “Yes. But now that you question it – she moves with assurance one does not associate with the young. Youthful. THRUSH?” he ended softly.

Napoleon grinned. “Illya, you see birds everywhere.”

“They are everywhere,” the frequently pessimistic Russian countered.

Napoleon laughed as they continued to his car and got in. “Frequently,” he agreed. All thoughts of the green-eyed woman were submerged as he pulled into traffic.

Cheri wondered why she had dodged using her own name when the man asked for it. Old habits die hard, she told herself and stopped for a moment outside the doors of a corner grocery store. She dug out the bills she’d found in her pockets. She straightened them out to find a number of five, ten and one dollar bills. A quick count brought the total to just shy of a hundred dollars. Not a lot of money, she thought for a moment, then adjusted her thinking to the early 1960’s. No, that was quite a lot of money. She walked into the store.

Twenty minutes later, she walked out with a burgeoning bag of groceries. She’d spent about five dollars. She marveled at this. She had enough food to get through several days while she got her footing in the mid twentieth century instead of the beginning of the twenty-first. 

Lunch was simple. Soup. Bread. Milk. Frustration. She watched the city out the windows. She would have to find out who owned the apartment and if it was functional to continue to live here. She needed a phone. She needed money. She needed contacts. She frowned as she watched the street. That was the busiest dry cleaners she’d seen in a long time. Dark suited men kept coming in and going out of it. Well, that was not all that abnormal. Only no one seemed to drop off or pick up any dry cleaning.

She corrected herself, some people did, but not the well dressed majority of men going in empty handed, disappearing for some time, and then reappearing, without cleaning. She considered this. There were several explanations, most of which had the dry cleaners figuring as a front. There weren’t a lot of brief cases going in or out, so it probably wasn’t something mundane like a numbers joint or drug dealer or even a money laundering operation. But there was something going on.

She wandered into the bedroom. The windows were smaller, more private, and still bare. She caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Euw. She was dirty. No wonder those two men had nearly avoided her and found her suspicious. She turned on the hot water in the bathroom and waited for it to heat up. No hot water. That meant the gas to the heater was turned off. She went in search of the hot water heater. It wasn’t in the apartment. Nor was the heat. That meant downstairs, somewhere.

The rest of the building was empty. She frowned at that. She wondered what was wrong with it, besides the heat being off. She found a door to the basement and went down, the small electric torch she’d located in her saddlebags assisting her to locate the light switches in the small, dark, dank basement. Boiler. Wow. It took up most of one side of the tiny basement. It was dark. There was a coal bin nearby. It was full. Heat. She shoveled coal into the appropriate compartment and then worked very hard to ignite the stuff. 

She unloaded the coal and tried to remember everything she ever read about starting a fire from the beginning. She discarded the “Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow” scenario. After all, you needed a lamp as well as a cow and a flammable city. She found a couple of sticks of wood lying in a corner and shredded a piece of her tank top to provide tinder to start things. She was thankful for the matches she’d found near the stove in the apartment. She set fire to the cotton from her shirt, added the sticks and nursed the tiny fire until she could add coal to the mix. 

It took a couple of hours to get the coal hot enough to burn, but it finally happened. She had a roaring fire in the furnace and could hear water beginning to bubble. Of course, it was a boiler. It served double duty providing hot water and steam heat for the floors above. She made certain the fire was healthy enough to keep going for a while and retreated to the apartment. She was sweating and beginning to shiver.

She moved the motorcycle out of the center of the floor, retrieved her change of clothes from the saddlebags and settled in for a bath. She had been hoping for a shower, but the bathroom, besides having a huge, cat footed bathtub, an elegant pedestal footed sink and an antediluvian Continental style toilet, did not include frivolous items like shower attachments. She bathed, sat in the bathroom drying out and dressed again. 

She stepped out into the open loft area and discovered the windows were beginning to fog over from the internal heat and external cold. The sun was working on late afternoon and the temperature was dropping faster than the sun. She sat on the floor with a sigh. Then she got up again, unloaded the saddlebags and sat down on the floor to sort through things. It was an interesting list.

One cell phone, useless without the system to back it up; yet of technological interest possibly. One Apache leather bag. One half bottle of cognac. Lock picks. Wallet with credit cards, mostly useless; cash, some of it useful; pictures – goddess, pictures. She swallowed hard and fought back the tears that photos of her partners brought forth. If she had to start over here, why the hell couldn't they have come with her? She set the photos aside and continued her inventory. 

In the final analysis, it wasn't a lot. The portable CD player was a definite anomaly, as were the CDs she'd carried with her. The music was years ahead of the current time. At least she had the AC adapter with the thing so when the AA batteries now powering it ran out, she could still use it. The lock picks were good. The credit cards – she regarded them thoughtfully. Discover, MasterCard, Visa -- all of these were useless. She didn't own a Diner's Club but she did have the American Express. The number was not current, but the data wasn't transmitted electronically. She thought deeply. Fraud went against her normal morals, but survival was important. Starving did not appeal to her, nor did getting picked up as a vagrant. So, fraud it was.


	2. Chapter 2

Siberia, 1964

Anyone having seen her in New York when she arrived would not have recognized the woman in the empty apartment. Blue black hair falling nearly to her waist had been clipped to just below shoulder length and bleached to a tawny golden hued mass. Her eyes were more blue than green thanks to extremely uncomfortable contact lenses. Her skin had taken on a pale golden glow with the help of certain herbs and diligent application of a sun lamp. It had taken American Express almost six months to catch on to the fraud she perpetrated on them with her battered card. By the time they blew the whistle on a card number that did not yet exist, she had a tidy nest egg and time to look around her for something to do.

She had looked into her old job and been dismayed to find out that neither the people she had worked for, nor their enemies existed here. She suspected she had gone through a full-blown nervous break down at that point. Nights and days blurred and she wasn’t too certain what she had done for a while. Then she hit on a plan. She had discovered that there was something called the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. Then she had discovered that this organization, funded through the United Nations and its member nations, had an enemy. A covert enemy. 

THRUSH.

The Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and Subjugation of Humanity. 

That got a derisive laugh from her. How melodramatic. She laughed harder as she considered Le Chapeau Noir. Okay, the bad guys just didn’t know a good organizational title from a hole in the ground. A little poking around and she knew that the good guys were not where she could put her talents to their best use. She was sad about that, but their charter was restrictive, they were law abiding for the most part and just flat shooting the bad guys, unless they shot first, was apparently one of the things they were not supposed to do. Even their field agents had to be careful.

She took a closer look at THRUSH. They were – a bizarre collection of businessmen and megalomaniacs with a number of highly intelligent, obsessive technocrats thrown in for good measure. Her first reaction was to want to blow them all away as quickly as possible. Her second reaction was to learn more.

Which brought her here. Siberia. A beautiful, desolate landscape lay below her vantage point. Underneath all that lovely packed snow lay a rotten core. A THRUSH Satrap. The idiots couldn’t even get the terminology right. Satrapy, as any good student of Egyptian history knew.

She blew on her hands and took another look through her field glasses. What was taking those two UNCLE master spies so long? She’d been observing the frozen tundra waiting for them to erupt from the installation for several hours now. Given their abilities, they should have been out by now. She frowned. Nothing. She reviewed the information she had seen leaked about this installation to the UNCLE personnel she’d identified. This was a bad project. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin should have dealt with the damn thing by now. She was not going to appreciate having to go in and deal with the thing herself. She had major problems with mind control projects.

Something exploded. She looked through the field glasses again. Excellent. A large chunk of the installation had collapsed in on itself. She paid close attention now, readying her sniper rifle. She must make certain that the two men came out of this alive, if not unscathed. Ah, there they were. 

As more explosions went off behind them, the dark haired Napoleon Solo, Number One, Section Two of New York’s office and his smaller, blond and Russian partner, Illya Kuryakin, came barreling out of the front of the installation on snowmobiles. THRUSH troops were following close behind. Both were firing, the UNCLE agents back at the bad guys and the THRUSH troops at the fleeing agents.

Most of the shots were missing due to the difficulty of controlling the fast moving snowmobiles and aiming at the same time. A lucky shot picked the smaller UNCLE agent off his vehicle, cartwheeling him across the hard packed snow until he came to rest in a heap. He lay there, half conscious and getting cold. Two THRUSH vehicles came skidding to a stop beside him. He tried to pull his mind and body back into one working whole. 

Crack. Crack. Pause. He could sense the men who had been concentrating on him flinging themselves toward what cover the snowmobiles could offer. Crack. Crack. Pause. Boom. He flinched at the nearness of the explosion. Metal and plastic debris rained down on him, along with smaller, red bits and pieces he decided he did not want to think about.

Illya rolled over onto his belly. Three bodies and a merrily burning exploded snowmobile. Where was Napoleon? Yet something told him the rifle cracks were not his partner’s doing. If not, then who was helping them? And why?

The rest of the pack of THRUSH dogs seemed intent on following the elder agent. Illya pushed himself into a sitting position and closed his eyes against the spin of the world. He knew it was actually his equilibrium that was off, but his stomach was certain it was the rest of the world at fault. He listened to the sound of a motor coming his way. There was a different timber to the sound than that of the snowmobiles he and Napoleon had stolen, or the ones following them. 

It puttered to a stop and then sat quietly muttering to itself. Someone got off the new vehicle and walked across the churned up snow toward him. He opened his eyes as the addition to the mix squatted down in front of him. White. White boots, white pants, white parka lined in white fur, at least, the hood was, tawny golden streaked blond hair. One white leather gloved hand pushed the amber tinted snow goggles up into the hair. He’d suspected the hair was not real. Black winging brows over eyes that were rimmed in long black lashes caught his attention before the glittering aquamarine eyes did. No one had eyes that color. No one.

“Comrade Kuryakin, I presume. Or, should that be ‘Mister’?” she asked in a thick Russian accent. It was pure Moscow he heard. 

“Mister,” he responded and tried to get to his feet. Something in his right ankle protested loud and long. He stayed in a crouch, defensive.

“Kropotkin. Tanya Kropotkin. A votre service,” she told him. Her accent falling away as she spoke French. “You are damaged.”

“I’m fine,” he ground out as he struggled to his feet. He tensed as she slid under his left arm to support him. 

“Of course, you are. Perhaps if we get you to your companion, he also will be fine.” She helped him onto the snowmobile the THRUSH guards had abandoned.

He caught her arm as she turned away. “Why?”

She grinned at him, her eyes dancing. “Because. I have – bone to pick with these idiots, da?”

“Why?”

“You ask too many questions for a man with broken leg in the middle of Siberian snow fields. Especially one with price on his head. Go to your friend. My intervention is my business, not yours.”

“You’ll follow.” It was a statement, not a question.

She chuckled. “You have such a suspicious mind. I will see you get safely to Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. That is all. Get moving. I believe he went – that-a-way.” Her rich laughter floated back to him as she walked back to her own ski mobile. 

She followed him, at a discreet distance, until he picked up Napoleon’s trail. Then she cut away to the north. He didn’t trust her one bit, but for now, Napoleon and the mission were of primary importance. He would store the name for future reference.

He caught up with his partner who had run out of gas and was pinned down by the surviving THRUSH guards. He cut the engine and let the weight of the vehicle pull it down into a small declivity. He quickly searched the machine for anything he could use as a weapon. Two grenades. He thought for a moment. They could always take a surviving vehicle from the THRUSH contingent. Quickly, he wrapped the grenades together and attached them to the gas tank with a strip torn from his shirt. He revved the motor, tore up and over the rim of the declivity and abandoned ship, so to speak, letting the snowmobile plow directly into the mass of THRUSH guards below him.

He rolled for cover, not that there was any, as the THRUSH guards discovered the runaway vehicle. There was a satisfying explosion that threw vehicle and THRUSH debris in all directions. Three of the other vehicles, struck by burning debris, added to the hellish mix of cold and fire by exploding also. He scooted through the snow to see if he could locate Napoleon. It looked like all the opposition were dead or down when something heavy smashed into the back of his head, shoving his face into unyielding snow pack and putting out the lights.

Yvygney Raskov, the very large and very temperamental Russian bear who had been in charge of the project, looked very pleased with himself as he ground the smaller man’s face into the hard-packed snow, suffocating him. He was laughing as he faced the other UNCLE agent. Napoleon brought his gun up, snapped off a shot and heard that most annoying sound. Click.

Crack.

Raskov’s face froze in mid laugh, a strangely disconcerted look in his eyes. He took a step back, releasing the small, limp body he’d been holding down. He took another uncertain step back, sat down, and then fell flat backwards. A very thin line of deep red trickled down from the corner of his mouth. He lay there staring at the washed out sky, blinked once, coughed and saw nothing.

Napoleon looked around and saw nothing. He scrambled to his feet, feeling the prick of someone watching him, and ran to his partner. He pulled the unconscious man over onto his back. His face was pale, his lips bluish from lack of oxygen.

“Illya! Come on, partner, breathe.” He shook the smaller man hard.

Gasp. Choke. Illya coughed and started looking a little less pale. His eyelids fluttered up and down. “Napoleon.”

“Yes.”

“You’re on my hand.”

With a slight chuckle, the elder agent picked up his knee and checked the hand beneath it that had been buried in the snow. “Sorry.”

Illya flexed his fingers. “It still works. Do we have a ride?” he asked shivering as the cold worked its way through his entirely inadequate clothing. 

Solo got to his feet, gave his partner a hand getting up and gestured to the expensive model ski mobile Yvygny’s death had left them. “Our chariot.” He stopped and surveyed the hulk of the dead man. “Shame to let that coat go to waste.” He swiftly stripped the coat off the dead man and bundled his complaining partner into it. “Don’t argue. You’re freezing and half dead. I’m freezing and hardly dead at all. Let’s get out of here.”

“Agreed.” The blond limped to the vehicle, deciding his ankle was sprained, rather than broken, and hesitated for a moment before climbing aboard. “Uhm – Napoleon –“

“Yes?”

“Did you – see – anyone --? “

“Helping us? No, did you?”

With a short nod he climbed onto the back of the vehicle and held on while Napoleon guided them out of the area.

 

Two days later, his ankle taped and well on its way to healing, and the bruises on his neck fading, Illya Kuryakin joined his partner in Alexander Waverly’s office. Both men did the automatic scan of the room, taking in the banked computer monitors behind the elderly man, the huge table with the rotating top, and the assorted neatly arranged chairs as well as the deceptive windows that looked out over the city. Both nodded a greeting to Waverly and then took seats at the table. Waverly regarded them in silence as he tapped tobacco into his ever present pipe.

“Well, gentlemen. Not a bad ending to your adventure in Siberia, although bringing back the technology might have been helpful.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Raskov proved less than willing to assist us in retrieving it, sir,” Napoleon pointed out.

“And your mysterious assistant?” the piercing eyes under the thick eyebrows looked to Illya who tried not to shift uncomfortably under the probing gaze.

“Unknown, sir. She called herself Tanya Kropotkin. There are three Tanya Kropotkins in our data base. One is the daughter of a minor functionary at the Kremlin, she is six years old. One is in her eighties and lives in Los Angeles. The third is – an assassin. “ The third one was the most likely to be their back up, but it did not make sense. “I have given a full description to our research people. I find it difficult to believe that an assassin of the Kropotkin’s reputation would suddenly turn – altruistic.”

“As do I, Mr. Kuryakin, as do I.


	3. Chapter 3

Deep in the Heart of Texas, 1965

Illya Kuryakin blinked at the lights, both those dancing in front of his eyes as he was dragged through the corridor and those depending from the ceiling. His shoulders ached, his head hurt abominably and he hated being dragged anywhere. He would bide his time.

A door opened soundless in front of the duo of THRUSH security guards carting the semi-conscious UNCLE agent and they walked through. He kept his eyes nearly closed, looking around through the merest slits between upper and lower lid. It was an office which apparently doubled as living quarters. He was dragged over to the brass bed and dumped on the surprisingly comfortable surface. He stiffened and lunged against the two men holding him as they reached for manacles to attach him to the head board.

The unmistakable sound of a round being chambered in a semi-automatic pistol was about two inches from his head. “Choice time, Mr. Kuryakin,” a sultry, female voice purred. “Dead now or the possibility of delaying that death for a while. Choose.”

His gaze flickered to the nasty looking hole in the barrel of the gun being held efficiently in one long fingered, pale skinned hand. The muzzle was rock steady. He relaxed and allowed the guards to chain him to the bed. The muzzled flicked sideways slightly to dismiss the guards. With wrists and ankles secured, there wasn’t much he could do – yet.

The woman moved to where he could see her. Shimmering blue black hair spilled over her shoulders, almost to her trim waist. Eyes like emerald chips glittered under winging black brows. Her eyelashes were also black. Her mouth was a colorless slash in her pale face. She wore black. A soft turtle neck sweater hugged her torso. It was tucked into black denim pants which were, in turn, tucked into the tops of a pair of low heeled black suede knee high boots. She set the pistol aside and straddled him in one smooth movement. Her weight on his pelvis was surprising. She balanced there, taking most of her weight on her own legs. She sat there and regarded him much as a cat might.

He was still wearing a much mussed button down shirt. Slowly, she unbuttoned him. He watched her watching him, his face immobile, no hint of the annoying touch of arousal he was feeling betrayed by his stoic gaze. He suspected she was quite aware of other signs she was getting through to him. She ran a fingernail down his bare chest. Her fingers outlined a scar.

“Bucharest,” she identified where he had received that one correctly.

The fingers traveled on, finding scars and naming their place of acquisition. He was beginning to get a trifle spooked by her obsessive knowledge of his hurts. He hoped his face and eyes revealed nothing.

“You have a three inch long knife scar on your back, just above the kidney, you were lucky to survive. A dock fight. And it was not THRUSH but someone else who used the knife.” She saw the flicker of shock in answer to that statement. Abruptly she threw herself off him and stalked across to her desk. She moved silently back to his side and stood staring down into his icy blue gaze for a very long, silent moment. A faint smile curved her lips. She dropped a key on his chest, leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, turned and walked away. Were those tears in her eyes?

“What---“

“I should think you would make good use of that key. Mr. Solo is probably wondering where you are.” She looked back over her shoulder. “Half an hour, Mr. Kuryakin. Thirty minutes.”

She left the room swiftly. He could hear the door latch behind her. The key was cold on his chest. The owl in his belly was colder. As swiftly as possible, he shifted the key toward his chin, his mouth. He picked it up and scooted as far toward the headboard of the bed as he could. It was just far enough. With a little concentration, he managed to unlock the left manacle. With his hand free, he quickly divested himself of the remaining restraints and threw himself off the bed. 

Quickly he looked through her desk. It was remarkably uninformative. His eyes lit on a framed photo of three women. The middle one was obviously his captor. The one to the left was a pale haired blond, a froth of white curls pulled away from her sculpted face. There was a serenity about her. The other was darker haired, the curls frothing around her neck and shoulders, a wide grin lighting her face. Something in her eyes, her smile, her stance reminded him of someone – April? No. But she did remind him of someone he knew very well.

He pulled the photo from the frame and looked behind it. Nothing. Just names. Taakin, Yuconovich, Elkins. From habit he memorized the names and started to slip the photo back in the frame. His fingers realized this was a photocopy before his brain did. He folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket. 

He crossed the room, buttoning his shirt and tucking it in. He eased the door open. Not a guard in sight. Without a gun, he was not as dangerous as he could be, but he was dangerous enough. And a gun was never that difficult to find in a THRUSH installation.

The woman was moving through the corridors of her installation with deadly purpose. She was dismissing staff as she went. Clerks, typists, secretaries and assistant scientists did not argue with the boss, they set down their assigned tasks and left the installation. She entered the main generator room to find Mr. Solo had run afoul of Dr. Antonio Imaldi. Mr. Solo’s less than immaculately suited form was suspended by the wrists over a foaming electroplating bath. She rolled her eyes in a long suffering motion and called the doctor’s name.

He jerked and turned, his fingers were wrapped around the control box for gently immersing items in the tank. “Miss Yuconovich. How nice of you to drop in. I have a leetle surprise for you. How would you like to present the Council with a statue of Mr. Solo?” He gestured to the suspended agent.

She looked the man up and down critically and looked back to the gremlin that was Dr. Imaldi. “I think the pose leaves a lot to be desired and naked would be better – more – classical? Yes?”

Imaldi looked like he was angry for a moment, then grinned. The grin was not quite sane, but that was normal among THRUSH experimental scientists. He started nodding to himself, his head falling into a disturbing bobbing motion as he worked the controls to bring Mr. Solo back to dry land, so to speak. 

She waited until the Dr. had his captive suspended above the floor instead of the vat before shooting him right between the eyes. “Nasty little man,” she commented coolly as he sprawled on the grating style floor. 

Solo regarded her curiously from between his still confined arms. Dark eyes with a question in them met too bright green. “I really hate sharing,” she told him. She eyed him for a moment, then nodded. “Sorry to kill and run, but you know how it is – places to go, people to kill –“ she ended lightly, stepping over the body and continuing on her way to the central computer processing area.

Napoleon Solo, never one to look a gift reprieve in the mouth, managed to haul his bodyweight up to where he could unhook the handcuff chain from the suspension hook. He dropped to the floor, rubbed his wrists where the cuffs had cut into them and quickly searched the body of the dead scientist. Ah, yes – a small gun, a number of pocket clutter odds and ends, and the scientist’s private notebook. Excellent. 

The nasty thing that tended to settle between his shoulder blades when crazy THRUSH higher ups were up to something goose stepped its way up his spine and settled in for a long stay. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck starting to stand at attention. This was not good. He pulled out his pen communicator, so used to the sight of the thing that its innocuous look no longer touched his perceptions, and beeped his partner.

“Kuryakin, here.”

“Illya, what have you been up to?” Solo asked lightly.

“Not getting information beaten out of me,” the normally curt Russian responded.

Solo frowned at his communicator. “Are you –“

“I’m fine, Napoleon,” Illya responded before the American agent could get the question finished. “But I think we should stage – what is it you call it? A strategic retreat. We’ve been noticed.”

“Yes – I think we have. Meet me at the front door?” The nasty thing really had its hooks in his spine for once. There was something immensely wrong with the situation and he did not want to find out what – yet.

Both men moved through the installation like greased death on silent feet. They dealt with guards, but the lack of other personnel was unsettling. The guards, as always, shot back. They met up at the front entrance of the installation just as the warning klaxons started their brain jangling screams that something was seriously out of kilter in the installation. A calm male voice informed anyone listening instead of shooting at the UNCLE agents that there was five minutes to self-destruct.

Blue eyes met dark, both men raised their eyebrows in inquiry. Both gave slight shakes of the head to indicate that they were not responsible. They hadn’t even figured out exactly what the installation was doing. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Solo yelled above the noise of automatic gunfire and klaxons. A curt nod was the response. Both men returned fire, taking out a number of black uniformed THRUSH guards and finally making their way out of the fenced in courtyard and into the rocky terrain beyond. Solo noticed his partner was limping. 

The imposing roar of a large motorcycle engine sounded behind them. “Really? You’re limping swiftly out of the installation?” The woman rolled her eyes at them. “Here. Leave it at the address on the card in the saddle bags and do not, I am serious about this, do not try to set a trap for me when I retrieve it. I will change my mind about you staying alive.” 

She swung off the machine and kept it balanced until Napoleon laid a hand on the opposite side handle bar. “Ciao!” she yelled over the roar of another blast behind them. She took off at a run and was gone from sight before they were settled on the bike. 

Several days later, Napoleon was surprised to find his partner not in the office they shared or in R&D, but in the motor pool with the motorcycle they’d escaped on. Illya looked puzzled, which was not something one saw every day. 

“What’s up?” the dark haired man asked as he deftly avoided any surface that might get oil or grease on his suit.

Illya raised his eyes from the bike to his partner and then looked at the array of things on the table next to him. “I am confused.” Very little confused the Russian about much of anything, except occasionally THRUSH implemented experiments. 

“What about?” He looked over the table and the motorcycle. 

“This.” The Russian gestured to the bike and the table. 

“Small words, but not that small,” Napoleon encouraged.

“The Vin number for this bike has not been issued yet.”

“What?”

“This is a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.”

“Yes.”

“I asked them to identify this Vin to find out who bought the bike. They said it does not exist. Also, the model year information off the same plate is ludicrous.” He exhibited the small metal plate. 

Napoleon stared at it. “1980? That’s got to be a typo.” As though metal could be stamped in error without a whole bunch of the plates being wrong and none of them being caught on the production line. “That’s ...”

Illya nodded. “Unusual to say the least. And these.” He exhibited a thin wire, one end with a small metal tab and the other with a peculiar plug that fit a small square item that obviously plugged into a socket. “There is nothing in the bags that seems to go with this. It’s not a bug, but if plugged in, the line carries a charge.”

“Something new from THRUSH?”

Illya shook his head. “I don’t think so.” THRUSH had a tendency to stencil bird logos on their products. “If … if I did not know better, I would think these things come from the future.”

“That’s not possible,” Napoleon “Is it?” The Russian had three Ph. D's that he knew of, one of them in Physics, he thought. 

“Not that I am aware of. Still, all of this is peculiar. And a great deal of trouble to go to for a joke. Most impractical.”

“So, we take the bike where she asked us to and wait for her to answer questions. She is THRUSH, after all.”

Illya nodded and held out the business card blank with the address on it. Napoleon’s eyes widened. “That’s ...”

“Right up the street. The empty building that’s been slowly renovated over the last few years.”

Their eyes met. “She’s been watching us?” They said in disbelief.


	4. Chapter 4

Illya drew a crumpled photo out of his pocket and handed it to his partner as they contemplated the implications of the woman Dr. Imaldi had called Yuconovich watching the two of them, and possibly all of the New York office. 

“What’s this?”

“Look at it.” 

Napoleon’s first thought was that the three women were remarkably attractive. As he turned the paper over, he noted the names. “Elkins.” He met Illya’s gaze again, a memory of a chill day and a grubby black haired girl. He looked at the photo again. “She lied to us,” he observed, but his look was more puzzled than angry.

Illya nodded his agreement. “She borrowed a friend’s name. I’ve had the names searched. Neither Taakin nor Elkins comes up as THRUSH, or anything else.”

“That we know of. Pity we couldn’t ask Ultimate about them,” Napoleon half joked. There were still occasional comments about the day he and Illya literally walked through the THRUSH computer as it was being moved out of a location. 

“I suspect it would not answer the question.” The Russian gave the motorcycle a pointed look. “There are too many questions. Have you seen Angelique lately?” he asked, seemingly changing the subject.

Napoleon knew better. “So we catch her and ask.”

“Didn’t she tell us not to do so?” Illya asked with a slight smile.

Napoleon chuckled. “Since when do we take orders from THRUSH?”

 

A week later, the very junior agent assigned to keep an eye on the building where Napoleon and Illya delivered the Harley, contacted headquarters to let them know someone was in the underground parking area. The two agents headed out to capture a THRUSH agent. 

They were doomed to disappointment. The young man retrieving the vehicle was no more than 20 and was very shocked to have guns pointed at him. He stammered and raised his hands, assuring the two men that he had a transport order for the bike. 

“Honest. I got it in the truck. Paid in full. I’m not stealing it.” His voice squeaked a trifle he was so frightened. 

Napoleon made soothing noises as put his gun away and gestured for Illya to do the same. “What’s your name?”

“Gary. Gary Muldoon. I’m a driver for Allied Van Lines. I’m supposed to load the Harley and both the cars and then load them onto a boat out of San Diego.”

“Could we see the bill of lading?”

“Sure. Like I said, it’s out in my truck.” He led the way outside to the back of the building where there was indeed a big orange truck with an Allied logo on it. The bill of lading was exactly as the driver said, and his ID confirmed he was indeed the driver of said truck.

“Looks like it’s all in order,” Napoleon confirmed. “Did you meet the shipper?”

Gary shook his head. “No. The paperwork was waiting for me this morning. I was gonna be dead heading back to Las Cruces without this load.”

“Go ahead and load up. Sorry for the inconvenience. Illya.”

“Yes?” The Russian was glowering. 

“Perhaps we should let the man do his job.”

They strolled back through the building, Illya thoughtfully putting a couple of small electronic bugs on each vehicle where they wouldn’t be noticed. “We can monitor the shipment to destination and find our elusive agent.”

“Good thinking.” 

They returned to UNCLE HQ and thought no more about the situation until Tracy, a new member of the New York contingent, stalked into their joint office and dropped a file on Napoleon’s desk. Then she stood there, one hand on hip and waited to be acknowledged. 

“Tracy.”

“Mr. Solo.”

“Did you want something?”

“I want to know why the opposition has dozens of female field agents and we have one.” She held up a hand to forestall his answering her. “Admittedly, Miss Dancer is phenomenal. I get that. But not one other female agent has qualified for field since she did.”

“Tracy,” he smiled at her. It wasn’t working. “I don’t know why they haven’t qualified any more women for field duty, but it’s not something I can influence.”

“You could tell Mr. Waverly …”

Napoleon raised a hand to stop her. ‘No. Look, would you really want to get the position because you were given it, or do you want to earn it?”

“Well, earn it, of course.” Her tone indicated that he was crazy even to ask her that question. 

“Ask for more training. Ask to go through the field agent version, it is different from support. And if you want a recommendation to attempt it, let me know.”

“Why … thank you, Mr. Solo.” She flashed him a genuine smile and walked out.

Illya looked up from the report he was writing. “What was that all about?”

“April seems to have inspired the ladies.”

“So they all want to be Mata Hari,” Illya surmised, shaking his head. “Don’t I have enough problems with the ones THRUSH throws at us?”

“Don’t let April hear you say that.”

“So what’s in the file?”

“The destination of the vehicles. Hong Kong.”

“So, she’s moved,” Illya commented with a scowl. “We are no longer under surveillance by a member of THRUSH.”

“That we know of. It is likely that the vehicles will be shipped somewhere else once they reach Hong Kong. I can’t see our elusive THRUSH staying there. Although it would probably provide more leeway for her than someplace like South Africa.”

“I’m sure we’ll find out,” Illya said in a dour tone.

Napoleon was also certain they would, probably to their detriment.


	5. Chapter 5

Spain, 1966

“I find it awe inspiring that they forget little things like this.” She dangled a power cord from one hand, her gun trained on them in the rock steady other hand. “I mean, how do they expect the self-destruct to work if it’s not powered?”

“Batteries?” Illya offered. 

“Good thought, but nothing big enough to handle this … yet.” She dropped the cord and leaned over the device, pulling up a red and green wire. Now, to make absolutely certain.” She yanked both wires out together. Nothing went boom. She sighed. “And badly constructed, to boot. Sometimes I wonder about my co-workers,” she admitted with a shake of her head.

“Why aren’t you letting this go up?” Napoleon asked curiously.

“Because when the term mad scientist was coined, Herschel was the picture in the dictionary.” Her laugh was a little unsettling and the gun was still steady, easily used on either or both men. “This installation won’t tell you much of anything, except that the unit chief was … unsettled mentally. So, you and your techs can have it, with my compliments.”

“Isn’t the Council going to find that a bit generous?”

She focused those too green eyes on Napoleon and blinked, an innocent look for a moment, followed by a grin. “Why Mr. Solo, I was never here. Besides, my friends on the Council approve of my … weeding the garden.” She gave them a brilliant smile and backed to the door at the other side of the room, blew them a kiss and vanished into the dark hallway beyond.

Napoleon almost gave chase. “Perhaps you should make certain the destruct is … disarmed,” he told his partner. 

“I’m not certain we could hold her even if you did capture her,” Illya gave his opinion as he moved to the device, frowning at the disarray he found. 

“Thanks.” Napoleon shrugged his shoulders, ever philosophical. He didn’t hate the operative that used them, although he was sometimes annoyed that she knew the two of them so well and they couldn’t find anything on her beyond the first day they met and one copy of a photograph. He was somewhat chagrined that in the months since their last encounter, neither he nor Illya had acquired more information on the woman who was definitely not in Hong Kong.

“Let it go,” Illya said quietly. “We will find out. We will eventually stop her, just not today,” he reminded his partner as he looked over the device. “Ah.” He allowed himself a chuckle that ended with a grimace as his ribs reminded him of the pounding they’d taken from a couple of THRUSH thugs. 

“Anything broken?”

“No. Not yet.”

Napoleon ignored the pessimistic comment and looked around the room. “I presume the computer connections are cut at this point. But there are a couple of small file cabinets.”

“Then we should call to have everything brought back to New York and get out of here.”

Napoleon nodded, extracted a slim silver pen from his inner coat pocket and opened a channel to report. They’d discuss the issue with the annoying THRUSH agent later. 

The agent in question reported in to her immediate supervisor. Giles Faversham was about the same height as the woman, trim, dapper, three piece suited and regarded her with cold gray eyes. She took a seat in front of his empty, softly gleaming oak desk and waited. 

Silence stretched out between them. 

“There are a few people who are not happy with the situation.”

She snorted a laugh. “Sorry, although not very. Pouring hundreds of thousands of dollars into Hershel’s insane ideas was ludicrous at best, a complete waste of time and money at worst. He was bound to draw attention to himself and he was narcissistic enough to think that his frequent murders would not get noticed. Which, admittedly, had it been only our people, might have worked out, but he kept taking out locals who weren’t involved … at all.”

“Eggs, omelet.”

“Had his project been working as well as the one in Africa, I could perhaps see it. It wasn’t.”

“That is on your word alone.”

She sighed and reached for the briefcase she’d brought in with her. Carefully extracting a slim manila file folder from the case, completely aware of the dark presence of Royke Darnell behind her, she slid the file across the desk top to Faversham. “Kindly remember, I did tell you that while I am content to support those practical operations and experiments that will benefit THRUSH long term, I have a very, very low tolerance for fools and idiots.”

He quickly scanned the three pages and six photos, his eyes narrowing in distaste over the final three of Herschel’s last three victims. “I wasn’t aware he’d … evolved.”

“Last week he was spending more time on his hobbies than on his research. As you can see, what he was running as experiments in no way supported his stated desire to find a way to transport agents more quickly and efficiently. You may have noted the mouse puree.”

Faversham leafed back through the photos. “Is that what it is?”

“Yes.”

“U.N.C.L.E. stopped the self destruct?”

She rolled her eyes. “Not exactly. It was wired wrong. Neither he nor his head of security could apparently put the thing together correctly. Besides, if we don’t let the opposition have even the poorest excuses for projects, they will get more insistent. Not what we want for the next few years. Give them crumbs and they think they have it all.”

Darnall’s voice was heavy behind her. “A deep deception.”

She looked around, bright green eyes meeting black. “Mr. Darnall, ambition is not unknown in our organization. Tossing me under the bus will be simple, should it ever come to that.”

Darnall’s somewhat swarthy face darkened at that. “Be careful, Miss Y. I have no problem ...”

“Putting a bullet in my head. I know. You’ve certainly expressed that idea frequently enough.” She stood up and moved closer to the master assassin until they were nearly touching, chest to breast. “I suspect it would be neither as simple as you think, or as permanent a solution. Take care.”

If asked about it later, Darnall would be the first to admit there was no menace in what she said, more statement of facts as she saw them. When he thought about it, she was quite unsettling, which probably explained why he kept reminding her of how easy it would be to put an end to her. An exercise in futility it seemed as she was not impressed.

She grabbed her briefcase and looked back at Faversham. “Is there anything else?”

“Dinner?” he suggested.

She chuckled. “That would be delightful, Boss. Where and when?”

Those details settled, she retired to her second favorite bolt hole and changed out of the figure hugging black dress and spike heels into something far more comfortable. A ride on her favorite motorcycle would be just what the doctor ordered, presuming she had one … a doctor.

She passed a full length mirror on her way to the front door and stopped, staring into her reflection. Her face was a little drawn these days. What was it? Three years since she woke up in the loft apartment in New York? Not that long, but long enough. She despised most of the members of THRUSH, including the High Council. Faversham was not a narcissistic megalomaniac, although Darnall was broken enough for the two of them.

She considered the dark assassin and his relationship with Faversham. Would it be too much to suggest that they stop avoiding the elephant in the room? The tension she felt between them had nothing to do with jealousy or animosity. Then again, it was the 1960s and the human race hadn’t grown up very much where gender norms were considered. 

She shrugged her shoulders, settled the leather jacket more comfortably and decided to wait a few more years. Maybe the 70s would be more open here. It was worth a shot. She ran her fingers across the glass over the original of the photo Illya had taken the copy of from her desk. They weren’t here. 

They had been. She’d found a record of a child bearing one friend’s name in the rolls of those who were sent to Dachau. There was no rescue in this world. The other was never born, her mother a polio victim stuck in an iron lung for a decade before dieing of complications. 

Somehow, that made the two UNCLE agents all the more precious to her. Not that she would ever tell them, or anyone else, about that. Secrets. She was very, very good at secrets.


	6. Chapter 6

Waziri, 1968

There were days when Cheri felt like she’d walked into an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel. In this case, Tarzan. The village stared at her. She stared back. The people weren’t quite Masai tall and slender, but it was obvious that except for adopting modern weapons, these people didn’t have much contact with the outside world.

The perfection of their English threw her for a moment when the leader, a man of perhaps middle years, deep chocolate colored skin and eyes of liquid black, stepped forward and addressed her in a deep and dignified manner. 

“You need to leave.”

Well, that was succinct.

She waved her men back and stepped forward, meeting the man’s gaze directly but not in challenge. “You are the legendary Waziri.” She didn’t give him a chance to deny it, not that he probably would. “Your borders are in danger of being overrun.”

That got a grin. A little feral, fierce. The waving plumes of his headdress tilted slightly to one side as he regarded her, his hand resting on the pistol holstered at his hip. “We take care of ourselves.”

Cheri nodded. “So I have been given to understand. Still, the drought conditions to the North and West are pushing the populations towards you. They are starving. Their animals are starving. The jungle cannot support their numbers as they are farmers.”

“We are farmers. And hunters. What are their problems to us?”

“Given time, they will swallow or destroy you.” She didn’t believe in pulling punches, not where her pet project was concerned. 

“I believe we can defend ourselves.”

“I believe you can also, but would it not make more sense to invest in the future of the refugees as well as yourselves.”

He snorted in derision. White people. They only talked of profit. “We have all we need.” In the early days of this century a bronzed giant of a white man had fallen in with them, admired their fighting spirit, made peace with them and brought his family here. The man was gone, none knew where, his family no longer here to protect. The Waziri had no need of white men and their greed. 

She could read his thoughts, although his face remained static. She really had walked into a novel. “I’m not here for gold or riches,” she said bluntly. “Those are mine where I come from. There is nothing in this land I desire to own.” That was true, as far as it went. Ownership was not on her agenda.

“Then why are you here?” The man cut to the heart of the issue.

“Oddly enough, I want to forge a nation, as the rest of the world understands the concept. Not just one tribe or people, but several, in a position to keep others from overrunning them and taking the resources from those who are already there, not to mention lives and ways of life.” She sounded oddly altruistic, which she wasn’t, really. 

Explaining her idea to Giles Faversham had been interesting. He was, after all, a member of the High Council of THRUSH. The organization was all about conquest, ruling, forcing others to do as the THRUSH master plan, whatever it was at the moment, demanded. 

“I don’t think I understand exactly what this will net us.” His narrowed eyes regarded her suspiciously.

“A willing base of operations.”

No, that didn’t connect. While Faversham was a relatively reasonable human being, he did lust after control, after power. Darnall, his ever present shadow warrior, shifted slightly where he stood leaning against the wall looking relaxed. 

Cheri sighed. “What is the major failing of all empires?”

It took a moment for her superior to switch mental gears. “Overextension.”

She had to admit that was an issue in the past. “OK, communications and supply lines have been an issue in the past. But the big thing is that empires that rule by fear eventually collapse under their own weight of suspicion, jealousy, hatred and unreasonable behavior to enforce the fear.”

Faversham frowned but nodded.

“Thus our stated purpose is not a long term attainable goal. Right now, THRUSH cannot hold in the face of better communications. When they find out what we’re up to, rebellion is the normal reaction, and while there are a lot of the Council who have no issues with the decimation of the opposition and our own cannon fodder, what if there was a better way? A way that built a population willing to support us because we support them?”

It was the assassin who nodded first in understanding. “Trevellian’s assassin corp,” he elucidated. 

Cheri controlled her reaction to the name. She hadn’t heard it in a long time, hadn’t realized there was a Trevellian here and known to THRUSH. “Not familiar with that one,” she said as she turned her gaze to Darnall. 

For just a moment there was speculation in his eyes. He knew she was lying, but wasn’t sure why or what about. Good. “Instead of a small, select cadre raised to do a single thing, a town, a country, that benefits from what we can provide. Food. Shelter. Health care.”

“Fewer dead children.” 

Darnall’s dead voice response sent shivers up and down her spine. She refrained from looking at him again, keeping her attention on Faversham. That was something she had not known before. Perhaps there was a line the assassin would not cross. That could bear investigation, but not right now. 

“As he says, fewer children lost. Education, so they are ready to take places in our governing body, in our sciences, in medicine.” She warmed to her subject. As an agent she had seen so many destroyed at the whim of despots, of idiots seeking only power but unable to hold it and unwilling to do what was needed to build a nation to support them. People who saw others as only tools, a means to an end. Then she could only be a band-aid, here and now, she might be able to shape the insanity as she could not from the outside.

If this worked, her scalpels might not be so busy in the future.

Which led her to this confrontation with a legendary tribe of warriors who had already benefited by their association with an Englishman. Wait. Was she admitting the tales were real? 

“Could I ask you a question … and get an answer?”

The man regarded her curiously. A woman, equally tall and stately, wrapped in gorgeous patterns and much bead-work jewelry, stepped up behind him, whispering so only he could hear. He scowled and jerked a shoulder to dismiss her. She whispered again and this time he looked back at her.

“Ask,” he growled as he turned back.

“Greystoke.” It wasn’t actually a question, she had to admit, but the flicker of his eyes told her what she needed to know. “Fuck.”

The men following her stiffened. She waved a hand for them to stand down. “Could we just talk? Privately? Or, with those who are involved in making decisions?”

A frisson of fear shivered up her spine setting off the owl in her stomach and making her wish she had done more research. She mentally cussed the technology gods for not getting their act in gear faster, much regretting the lack of the Internet. It would get here soon enough, but she missed it greatly in situations like this.

“Your men stay here.”

“Not a problem.” She gestured her team leader forward and gave him instructions. They should rest, refresh themselves from the supplies brought with them and keep to themselves unless the tribe made the first move. She’d noted several children at that completely confident and curious age in the background. 

“There will be no aggression.”

Fredericks nodded, his pale eyes roving over the tribes people, noting the armament. “Keep to ourselves unless they initiate. Do not snarl at the children. Answer questions within the dictates of the mission.” He quelled the reaction to her smile, praying she did not notice.

“Excellent. I’ll be back to you when I get back.”

Sometime later she returned to her men looking thoughtful. Fredericks raised an eyebrow in inquiry. “Pack up. We’re headed north … ish.”

He snapped orders to his men. A couple of them sighed. They’d just finished setting up camp. Cheri looked around and chuckled. 

“OK. We’ll head out in the morning. I didn’t realize how late it is.” She looked up at the full moon just peeping into the village clearing. 

“So, where are we going?” Fredericks presumed that the tribe they encountered was unsuitable for their purposes. 

“Biafra.”

“Where?”

“It used to be part of Nigeria. Between the blockade, the war and the drought conditions, it should be perfect.” Talk about changing history. Someone handed her a cup of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stumbled into Wold-Newton territory. I didn't realize that MFU was included. The things I learn when trying to straighten out timelines in my head. LOL.


	7. Chapter 7

1969, New York

Illya Kuryakin stepped into his efficiency apartment which held little more now than it had when he moved in right after he came to New York. He was closing the door when he realized he was not alone, dropped the bag of groceries and eased his gun out of its holster.

“Put the gun away, I’m in no condition to ...” The voice broke off on a wet sounding gasp. “Shit.” 

He could envision the heaving ribcage as he stepped quietly around the couch to see the black haired bane of his existence. Cheri Yuconovich lay on the rug between his couch and coffee table. He’d seen corpses that looked better. Her face was purpled and swollen, one eye completely closed. The hand apparently holding together a large gash across her belly was in bad shape. 

He holstered the gun and tried to organize his feelings. As an UNCLE agent, he should be rejoicing at one more agent out of his hair. Instead, he found himself moving toward the phone to call an ambulance. No dial tone. The wire had been ripped out of the wall and lay on the floor. 

“Planning on dying to frame me for your death?”

Choked laughter and another gasp. “No, stupid,” she whispered. “I just … You should see the other guy,” she ended weakly. “I was going to … bath … Don’t ask, just … tub. Please.”

Illya shook his head and tried to frame some sort of intelligent response. Instead, he went and filled the tub with hot water, returned and picked up the woman who seemed to have drifted into unconsciousness. Her breathing was shallow, wet, failing. 

He lowered her into the water, propping her head up against the back of the ancient cat-footed tub and waited. The water reddened, turning rusty with dirt and blood and she was still unconscious. 

Rewiring the phone to the wall took a couple of minutes and instead of calling an ambulance, he pulled out his communicator and called Napoleon. “Napoleon!” The other agent didn’t answer the call. “Dammit, pick up.” He scowled at the pen sized unit and closed it. 

For a few minutes he just sat there before realizing he needed to pick up the groceries and stow them. He was almost finished when his door was kicked in and a storm cloud entered, armed to the teeth. “Where is she?” it thundered as it resolved into Royke Darnall, clad in black from head to foot. 

“Bathroom.”

Darnall blew past, slamming through the closed door and stopping. Illya presumed what the man said was in the nature of a curse, although he didn’t understand the words. Welsh was not one of his languages. 

Illya set the beans and vodka on the table in the kitchen and waited. The man in the gray suit limped in, leaning heavily on his cane for once, nodded to the Russian, and stopped as well. “Is she here?” he asked patiently.

“She’s dead.”

Faversham nodded and looked around at Illya. “My apologies for the door, Mr. Kuryakin. Would you have a sheet or blanket we can sacrifice to wrap the body?”

Illya stepped into his spartan bedroom, pulled out an armful of towels thoughtfully presented to him by his partner over the years, and handed them to Darnall before returning to the bedroom and locating a blanket, also presented to him by his partner, and, as yet, still sealed in its original package. 

The gasp of breath from the bathroom made him curious. It was followed by choking sounds and the spew of water, as from someone surviving drowning. Darnall rocked back on his heels. Someone spewed noisily. 

The concealed blade in Faversham’s cane caressed Illya’s throat. “Sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, but there are things neither you nor the U.N.C.L.E. need to know.”

It crossed Illya’s mind that dying in his apartment at the hands of what they believed was a member of the High Council was not the end he had ever envisioned. Then again, hosting a trio of THRUSH agents was not something he’d envisioned either. 

Darnall took the blanket from him and returned in a few moments with a securely wrapped body. He cocked a black eyebrow at Faversham. 

“Take her to the car, Royke. I will deal with Mr. Kuryakin.” His voice was as cold as his pale eyes. The assassin stalked out with his package leaving the THRUSH higher up and the Russian at either ends of the cane. “We’ll take care of the door,” he assured the Russian as he released a puff of gas into the latter’s face. He really would have to express his appreciation to R&D for their ingenuity.

“We were never here,” he said quietly. He limped out as Illya sank to the floor, unconscious. In the hallway, he nodded to two workmen who were looking at the broken door frame. “Do make certain it is completed expeditiously. I’d prefer the occupant not get invaded once I’m gone. Understood?”

“Not a problem, Mister.” One of the men tipped his cap to Faversham and they set to work, completely ignoring the unconscious man inside. 

Illya rolled over onto his back wondering vaguely why his mouth tasted vaguely the way a dust bin smelled. He got to his feet, a feeling of unease he could not place slithering along his spine. Why was he on the floor in his living room, just outside his bedroom?

He put the canned goods away and placed the vodka in the freezer. He was closing the freezer door when he froze, tantalizing wisps of memory flitting through his mind. He went to the bathroom and knew there was something completely wrong here. There was dirty water in the bathtub, wet towels touched with blood all over the floor and long black hairs here and there. 

The knock at the door startled him.

On the other side, his partner was looking at the doorway curiously. “New door?”

“I need a drink.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new section is the previous one. I had to reorganize. Sorry for the confusion.

1972, Behind the Scenes

“What?!” Cheri exploded as she read the most recent report on the opposition’s activities. “They can’t do that! Those idiots! Why?”

Royke Darnall, still all dark moods and shivery most of the time looked in the doorway to Cheri’s office. “What?”

She looked up at him and smile, which netted a slight softening of his angular face. “They’ve quit,” she didn’t quite manage to elucidate.

“Who?”

“Solo and Kuryakin.”

“Good.”

“No. Not good.”

His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. “The two premier agents quit and it’s not good for us?”

“Well, yes. But, no. How can I manipulate them if they’re not there?”

‘Were you?” That netted a look query followed by a widening of the black eyes in comprehension. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Yeah. No.” Her best strike team was gone. She’d expected them to retire from the field at some point, but then they’d be useful in pushing their replacements into the situations she needed them in. Although she suspected that both men had more than realized how they were being used, the missions still came up as wins, frequently a little less damaging than others.

Now what was she gonna do? Dancer and Slate were good, but they were on the way up the ladder, the latter toward training and Dancer headed for an early seat among Section One now that Solo was out of the picture and Waverly was gone. Entering the new decade saw changes in the prejudices against women in the field, and the hackneyed old attitudes about same. The A’s had done much to change that attitude: Angelique and April.

Cheri smiled at the thought. The two had been instrumental in finally removing the excrescence Bailey from the Council and from life. Sometimes she felt guilty about leaving the creep in place for so long, but he had held his position for several years before Faversham rose to his and the Council protected its own. She growled deep in her chest over that. On the bright side, he was gone and most of the Council understood it was not his machinations to rule that got him disposed of by his victims. That had been a particularly satisfying bit of closure. Messy, but satisfying.

“Find new agents.”

“Oh, I will. But they were … particularly satisfying to point where I wanted them. Especially when they figured out what was happening.” Her own smile reflected her warmth for the two men. Not even Faversham knew the history, or her history, for that matter, although both he and Darnall had more than an inkling that that the Council member’s assistant was more than she appeared. Especially since that little issue at Kuryakin's apartment a couple of years earlier.

At least Faversham and Darnall finally managed to address the elephant, once it was clad in a tutu, clown makeup and carrying a frilly parasol. That and dying in each other’s arms helped as well. She smirked at the assassin.

He returned a long suffering look. “You could have said something,” he pointed out cryptically. 

“After 15 years, one of you should have taken the first step,” she countered. Then again, Darnall was broken in ways she couldn’t begin to understand. “Still, you’ve made strides.”

“Need someone killed?”

“No. I’m good. I will persevere. I’m visiting the Republic of Biafra later this month. That project is succeeding nicely.” As she recalled it, Biafra ceased to exist in 1970 and was still a bone of contention with the Nigerian government when she abruptly changed universes/worlds/dimensions. Nigeria was still annoyed, but the war with the secessionists was over and the Republic was recognized by the UN. And Doctors without Borders had still come into existence.

The Council was withholding judgment until her experiment concluded. That could take a few decades given the tribal issues all over the African continent, not to mention some of the religious problems. She stopped that thought. Having her head explode was a bad idea. Messy. 

Now she was going to have to make some more suggestions for Ultimate to R&D to see if they could tap into the scientific communications that would eventually give birth to the World Wide Web and then the true Internet. She was getting impatient. ARPANET was showing signs of major usefulness, but hooking Ultimate into the system ...

She straightened in her seat. Maybe not Ultimate, but the computer systems at several of their other sites could be linked into Ultimate and they could represent themselves as scientific … It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start to link the organization into others. Represent it as keeping track of what the governments of the world were up to in research. That would work.

Darnall stepped back into the hallway as she started pulling her notepad toward her and reaching for a pen. He knew that look. Something was percolating.

Some weeks later, Napoleon Solo was at a cocktail party feeling at loose ends when he was introduced to a younger man with a vision. The man had an idea for incorporating computers into security in ways that neither the computers nor the security world were quite ready for; he needed a consultant and he had the funds to make it worth while.


End file.
